The husband-and-wife owners of Wayne’s Cornerstone Cheese & Charcuterie share their Society Hill kitchen, a modest space that packs a surprising punch. Not unlike their surging shop. By Scott Edwards · Photography by Brandon Wyche
Down a steep, narrow spiral staircase, in the basement of a brick townhome in Philadelphia’s Society Hill neighborhood, sits Christine Doherty Kondra and Nick Kondra’s kitchen. For all of its colonial-era charm—the brick and stone wall, the exposed, original floor joists overhead—the space is, foremost, a model of efficiency. Because it has to be. Two people of average height standing shoulder to shoulder, arms outstretched, could probably cover the full length of the room. When they moved in, the sum of the storage was a couple of floor-level cabinets and a shallow pantry. The only source of natural light, the contemporary door that opens to the sidewalk, which doubles as a sort of skylight. But there was a gas stove, and that was every bit the priority that location was to them. This was two years ago, and Doherty Kondra was working as a private chef. “So every single day I was cooking. And not a little. A lot,” she says. The Berwyn native met Kondra, who’s from Syracuse, at a party their first summer working on Nantucket as chefs. They were engaged three years later. In November 2014, they moved back here to be closer to Doherty Kondra’s family. Coming from Boston, they gravitated to Philly. Kondra became the pasta chef at Amis. Within the next two years, they’d open Cornerstone Cheese & Charcuterie in Wayne. But, for now, Doherty Kondra was left to piece together a functioning kitchen in order to make a living. So, there was the gas stove, at least. It didn’t vent, though. “The woman who had been here I guess for like 15 years prior used the microwave to cook,” Doherty Kondra says. “So she had never actually turned the stove on.” That was corrected in short order. The unique (read: wildly inconsistent) dimensions of the kitchen added to the challenge of outfitting it. They landed on a compact island from Crate & Barrel with a stainless steel top and a wooden bottom that doubles as their dining table. There’s also a shin-high shelf hidden underneath. They installed a trio of eye-level cabinets from Ikea. And Doherty Kondra, with the help of her uncle, built the simple shelving that spans the length of the opposite wall, since nothing she found could accommodate the limited space and the varying heights of their pressure canner, crockpots, blenders and pasta machine. A pegboard that runs the full height of the door that opens to the next-door laundry room holds most of their hand tool arsenal. And their copper pots and pans hang in neat rows on the wall immediately on the other side of that door. Look closer and you’ll notice that the spices housed in the lower cabinets and the pantry’s contents are even alphabetized.
“Everything’s organized according to how I cook, and to be able to just easily grab and go,” Doherty Kondra says. “When we’re cooking down here, I have to remind Nick we don’t have a dishwasher.” A person, not the machine. There is a dishwasher. “That’s a common problem with guys that are used to the [commercial] kitchen; they start cooking at home and they’re using every single pan. You don’t do that as a private chef. You use like one, or two, or three, and you clean as you go.”
Since Cornerstone has taken off, they’re cooking less for themselves and using this home more as a pied-à-terre. They spend most nights during the week in a second home near the restaurant.
“I’m ready to take the plunge and just stay out in the suburbs,” Kondra admits.
His wife, however, is reluctant to let go of the city. “If we had all the money in the world, I would raise our kids in Philadelphia and buy a beautiful brownstone a block from here,” she says. “But we didn’t win the Powerball. It’s not going to go that way.”
Kondra planted another seed, and now he seems to be winning her over. “It sort of dawned on me,” Doherty Kondra says, “if we have a place in Wayne full-time, then we’ll come into the city—”
“And,” her husband jumps in, “stay at the Four Seasons.” Well played.
Not to gloss over the 60 kinds of handpicked cheese for sale or the house-made sausage, but it’s the deftly edited restaurant at Cornerstone Cheese & Charcuterie that shot it into orbit. Weekends are booking at least a week out. Impressive for what was supposed to be a gradual introduction. The original concept was a gourmet-bent shop that staged the occasional cooking class. And then, a couple months in, dinner service.
At the heart of the uniquely intimate atmosphere is a U-shaped, 14-seat chef’s counter—those are, by the way, the only seats in the restaurant—that encircles an open kitchen. Watch your meal come together or turn your undivided attention to your dinner companion. There’s no in-between. This is not a communal table. And beyond the Van Morrison bellowing softly in the background, there are no distractions. Even the wait staff seems to make itself invisible, plates appearing magically before you.
This is not dining out as you’re used to it, especially in Wayne. With the volume turned down on the white noise, the food and the conversation go 4K HD. —SE
Surreal as the James Beard dinner was at turns, there were, thankfully, lots of normal touchstones, too, to ground our chef on the biggest night of his career.
I met my crew at the inn at seven the morning of the dinner. We packed everything the night before, so it was just a matter of loading the cars and then double-, triple- and quadruple-checking it all. Three hours later, we were pulling up to the James Beard House.
By 11, we’d unloaded the cars, checked into the hotel and were tying on our aprons back in the kitchen. I made a list of everything that still needed to be prepped and then a timeline for the next 10 hours. I wanted all of the prepping done by two and everything organized by course in the refrigerators. The most labor-intensive task ahead of us was making the chocolate and yuzu cremeux. Jeff’s young, but he could make cremeux in his sleep. I didn’t need to worry about him, but that didn’t mean that I wasn’t worried about the cremeux. Sure enough, a box of baking soda was accidentally tipped over on one of the trays. Plenty to spare was suddenly just enough. But that was our only real hiccup. We even had some time to break for lunch and wander the neighborhood some.
Around 4:30 p.m., the maître d’ came looking for me to perform a couple rites of passage: sign a copy of the menu and the chef’s jacket that’s exhibited on the second floor. The jacket’s refreshed every few weeks, and at the end of the year, they’re auctioned off. The weight of the moment sunk in a little deeper as I signed next to Jonathan Benno’s signature. Think of the jackets like the footballs signed by the winning Super Bowl teams. Among the tens of signatures, there are a few stars that will become legends, some rising studs on the cusp of breaking through and a bunch of others for whom this was the pinnacle of their otherwise anonymous careers. Every one of them, though, could count themselves among the precious minority privileged to call himself a Super Bowl champion.
Back in the kitchen, I walked my crew through the hors d’ oeuvres, and the night seemed to slip into fifth gear. The next time I glanced up at the clock, it was six. Time to deliver the lineup to the service staff. I ran through the courses and thanked everyone for helping to pull off what was becoming a night that would never fade from my mind.
The nerves and this out-of-body sense I’d been experiencing to some degree all day evaporated the moment we started assembling the hors d’ oeuvres. I have a tendency to set very serious in the heat of the moment. My focus sharpens and, at the same time, I can anticipate the next few steps. That broke temporarily when my family walked into the kitchen. The rest of the guests filled in behind them. There was a guy among them who took up a post by the far wall and studied us closely. His face was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. And then I did: Mark Teixeira. Holy shit. It was the first baseman for the New York Yankees.
Just before eight, we started plating the first course. This is where all the preparation is felt most acutely. The course needs to be plated 80 times in 10 minutes. Repeat five times. Everybody had one responsibility for each dish, save for my sous chef, who I asked to get a head start on the next course.
The dinner was done in two hours, more of a sprint, really, than a marathon. I toasted my crew back in the kitchen as the guests lingered out in the dining room. Much as this was a milestone night for me, it wasn’t anything that a chef, no matter how talented he or she is, could ever pull off on his own. I made it to this moment because of the people standing around me with their glasses raised. And with that, we were off into the night, celebrating into the wee hours, a desperately needed release after a week-plus of mounting tension.
I’ll be serving the tasting menu from my James Beard dinner at the Stockton Inn throughout March.
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A Frantic Homestretch
As if cooking dinner at the James Beard House wasn’t pressure enough, Jonas intervenes.
By Alan Heckman
With three weeks left before the dinner, I’d confirmed delivery of all of the ingredients. The wine order was still a work in progress because some were more difficult to get ahold of than I expected. There was plenty of time, but it still ate at me. At the restaurant, I could always call an audible, but this dinner’s different. Nothing can be left to chance. By the end of the week, I managed to finally secure one of the wines I planned to serve. A bright spot to end the week on, at least. The second wine’s confirmed the next week. Four to go.
Two weeks out, I was pretty sure I was on the cusp of a heart attack. Three of the wines weren’t available. I’ll look for another year of the same vintage, I thought. Each state has its own wine purveyors, and they’re allocated certain amounts by the wineries and importers. So, basically, I needed to pray that the wine I wanted wasn’t already spoken for. It was. Panic. A week out and I had to come up with three new wines. But this time, instead of telling the purveyors what I wanted, I worked off their lists of what was available. It’s not ideal, but it was a relatively easy fix. By the end of the day, all six wines were ordered and scheduled to be delivered to the Beard House 24 hours ahead of the dinner.
From there, I turned my anxiety to the weather. I needed to see clear skies across my 10-day forecast. Even a random flurry between now and the dinner would wreak havoc on my delivery schedule.
And then Jonas descended. Monday, 8 a.m., three days until the dinner, the first call comes. “Chef, our trucks can’t get out. We should be able to get to you tomorrow.” That was my veal cheeks and venison. Veal cheeks take a solid five hours of prep, so I was nervous, but still in the game. Somehow, the produce arrived on time. So did the seafood—but with the wrong shrimp. I put the order in a month ago. The purveyor apologized, said he could get a new batch to me by Thursday. Ugh. “Send me the same size shrimp, but for half the price for the hassle,” I said. It was worth a shot.
The veal cheeks and venison came at 2 p.m. Tuesday. Two days to go. But it’s only half of what I ordered. Back on the phone. “No later than 8 a.m. tomorrow,” I said. We still managed to get a lot of the prepping done Tuesday. And at 10 the next morning, the rest of the cheeks and venison surfaced. The cheeks are frozen, though. Naturally.
It was 45 in the kitchen. And the water was running about 38 degrees. Trying to thaw the cheeks was like watching ice cream melt in a freezer. I started to pray. Again. We finished the prepping, at least. Finally, around 6, about 24 hours until the dinner, I began to braise the cheeks. They’d take close to four hours. In the meantime, we loaded up the coolers.
I climbed into bed around 11:30 that night, knowing that sleep wasn’t going to come. My mind was retracing the last couple days and bracing for tomorrow. And then the alarm was sounding.
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It’s Real Now
By Alan Heckman
It feels like it was just yesterday that I was invited to cook at the James Beard House. In case you’re wondering who James Beard is, a quick primer: He’s considered the father of the American dining renaissance. Most of us grew up watching Julia Child, but Beard’s was actually the first cooking show on TV. The foundation that bears his name today is based in New York City, in Beard’s former home, and, as part of its mission to support forward cooking, it invites star chefs, rising and established, from all over the country to cook dinner for some of the leading tastemakers in the industry. My turn comes in a little over two weeks, and, as you can imagine, it’s an incredible honor. Not only is it a big notch on the ol’ CV, it’s also a way to support my community. (The dinners help generate funding for the foundation’s scholarship and educational programming.)
The magnitude of all this didn’t really hit me until I broke the news to my wife and watched the excitement spread across her face. Just that fast, the floodgates broke open in me. What will I cook? What if nobody likes it? (My family will be there, so at least they’ll tell me they did. I hope.) The kitchen is notoriously small. How am I going to pull this off? I didn’t sleep an hour that night, as my thoughts careened between pure elation and anxiety.
When I woke, I started prioritizing. First thing I needed to do was lock down the menu. I knew, at least, that I wanted to showcase everything that’s had a significant impact on how I think about and work with food. That helped a lot. From there, I submitted my menu to the foundation (you can view it here), and it replied with all the necessary prep details, which brought a slight sense of relief.
Still, one big question loomed: How small, exactly, is this kitchen? I’d been warned a bunch of times over to brace myself for the worst. And for this to be a success, I really need to cook this dinner in my head as often as I can, which means being able to visualize where each component of every dish is going to be prepared. So, I decided to scope it out for myself.
From the outside, it’s a modest-looking four-story rowhome (if such a thing exists in New York). The event coordinator greeted me and led me around. As we came around the corner to the kitchen, I felt like a game show contestant who was about to find out what was behind the door I picked. There it was at last—several blinks and pans of the room—the very kitchen that James Beard cooked in for more than a quarter century. I laughed to myself at the sight of the low ceiling and Styrofoam-padded hood vent, imagining all the great chefs who’ve scraped and knocked their heads against them. It’s not the smallest kitchen I will have ever cooked in, but it’ll be tight.
Methodically, I inspected everything from the plates to the equipment. This experience up until that point felt surreal. But that started to change with every new thing I touched.
[divider]Your Backstage Pass[/divider]
Watch Alan and his team cook the biggest dinner of his career on January 28. The James Beard Foundation will be live-streaming from the kitchen here. Three different angles will be available. Given the tight confines, every last crumb should be covered.
Photo credit: Courtesy the Stockton Inn
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Alan Heckman Has Arrived
As he prepares to cook the biggest meal of his career, let us introduce you to the Stockton Inn chef.
In Alan Heckman’s kitchen, there’s always a large pot or two filled with a scratch-made sauce that requires a few days of simmering and constant monitoring. His old-school methodology and the subtle depth that comes out of it have become the foundation in the resurrection of the Stockton Inn in the Central Jersey riverside town.
Heckman cuts an imposing figure, but his baby face immediately undermines any potential threat. Physically, he’s 30 going on 18. Even though he’s not that long out of culinary school, his mentality is pure Thomas Keller. He’s a stickler for a spotless restaurant, he cooks on the line every night and he talks about having needed to pay his dues before he finally became an executive chef—at 24.
Straight out of school, Heckman stepped into one of the most revered kitchens in the country, Canlis, a Seattle restaurant established in 1950 and run today by the founder’s grandsons. He left there appreciating the gravity of maintaining tradition.
An extensive trip through Europe and Northern Africa brought him back to the literal beginning: food as sustenance. Heckman watched wide-eyed as a woman slapped dough against the sides of an in-ground tandoori oven outside of her modest home in Tunisia, the inside of her arms scarred from the daily ritual.
Back home in Connecticut, or as close to one as he’s ever had (he’s a Navy brat), Heckman made up for lost time, pulling double-duty as the morning prep cook at Craftsteak and sous chef at a small, modern-American restaurant. Overnight, he was introduced to the business of cooking—the ordering, the scheduling.
Around this time last year, the Stockton Inn was searching for its identity. Heckman, fresh off of four years heading up The Washington Crossing Inn, was beginning to come into his own. Together, they’ve managed to draw the attention of kingmakers. Back in the fall, Heckman was invited to serve as the featured chef for a night later this month at The James Beard House, in New York City. He started right in on sketching his menu. It’ll trace his own maturation—the tradition, the humility, the poise.
Over the coming weeks, Heckman will journal his preparations for the dinner and its aftermath here, from his thought process and the sourcing to his anxiety (or lack thereof) and the swell of reflections that’s bound to come standing on the cusp of a landmark moment. Then you can say you knew him before he blew up. —Scott Edwards
Thanks to some inventive craft brewers, forget drinking with the seasons.
It may be gray and cold outside—coldish, at least—but we’re thinking white sand beaches and lush, humid afternoons when we reach into the fridge for an adult beverage. Citrusy hops are nothing new to IPAs and saisons. A handful of local craft brewers, though, started upping the ante and tossing in actual fruit, too, layering easy-drinking beers with strong sweet and tart undercurrents.
Victory Agave IPA with Grapefruit is the first installment in the brewer’s Blackboard Series, a riff on ingredient-inspired restaurant specials, which rolled out earlier this month. It’s a crisp-drinking ale that’s mellowed out some by the sweet syrup.
Not so much a fan of tartness? Fear not. There’s a fruity beer for you too. Coriander takes the edge off the orange in Do Good Kenzo Sour, and then a hit of honey smoothes it out even more. In Tired Hands Citra/Citrus, calamondin orange puree is folded into an already-fruity blend of hops.
The sun hasn’t gone missing, exactly. It’s just not hanging out in its usual spot. For the next couple months, thanks to these beers, we’ll have better luck finding it in the bottom of a can. —Scott Edwards
On the eve of another highly anticipated Winter Festival Chili Cook-off, we turn to longtime-featured chef Bob Kascik for an assist with our own.
By Mike Madaio
Is there anything more enticing than a cushy couch, a roaring fire and a “Ray Donovan” binge session on a dead-of-winter Sunday afternoon? For hundreds, the last several years, the answer is yes: craft beer and a bottomless bowl of pro-made chili. And they’re just the ones lucky enough to get their hands on tickets.
The Lambertville, New Jersey-New Hope Winter Festival is a week loaded with concerts, tastings, walking tours and ice sculpting staged throughout the neighboring river towns during what is otherwise one of the bleakest stretches of the year. (January 23 through Jan. 31, this year.) But its most-inspired event (and most-popular draw) is saved for last (and the indoors): an increasingly competitive chili cook-off that pits several local chefs against each other.
On the eve of this year’s edition, the 19th, we visited the kitchen of bitter Bob’s BBQ + Comfort Food, in New Hope, to ask its owner-chef, and longtime cook-off participant, Bob Kascik for some pro tips that would translate to our own chili.
Much like snowflakes, no two are alike, but there are universal treatments, like the use of peppers. Kascik uses five kinds: habanero, scotch bonnet, jalapeno, Thai and chipotle. Why five? Because he also uses five kinds of meat—pork, brisket, chicken, turkey and sausage—and he likes the symmetry. His first year in business, Kascik was over-ordering, and, out of necessity, he started developing recipes around the leftovers, from which his Double Nickel Chili eventually emerged.
The nuance comes not necessarily from the variety of meats—not just, at least—but from their preparation. “It’s the burnt ends, the stuff that’s been cooking in its own juices for hours, refining its flavor,” says Kascik, whose demeanor is the very opposite of bitter. The nickname, apparently, was doled out during a game of Uno, and it stuck. “And the blend of peppers allows for a really nice heat, not just up front but in the back of your throat, a warm glow that levels out and blends with the smokiness of the barbeque.”
Tried and true as the formula seems, Kascik is vulnerable, just like the rest of us, to chili’s pull to riff, even with bragging rights on the line at the cook-off. “It’s such a great day to hang out with other chefs, people from the community, have a few beers,” he says. “And as long as I’m doing it, I might as well try to be innovative, put out some new ideas.”
And therein lies the lure for both the maker and the eater: the potential for revelation. The base and the appearance may be relatively standard, but there’s a broad spectrum of flavor lurking within that thick, chunky, orange-red stew.
“People tend to get hung up on heat levels, but you can always add heat at the end. It’s far more important to achieve a balance of flavors and get the texture right,” Kascik says. “Once you get that down, you can start to innovate with lots of things you have around your own kitchen.”
Before you jump into your New Year’s resolution, know where you stand.
By Todd Soura
Another January is upon us. Which means it must be time for a new you, too. Isn’t that the way it works? A fresh start, a hellish holiday hangover, regardless of your motivation, resetting (or beginning) a healthy lifestyle is never a bad thing. But taking on too much too soon all but guarantees that you’ll be right back here this time next year.
Neither of us wants to see that happen. So, before you do a single crunch, figure out exactly how fit you are. I’ve developed the following baseline test to gauge all the essentials: body fat, strength, balance and flexibility. By the time you finish, you’ll know how much work you have in front of you, and you’ll be able to scale your workouts accordingly.
Remember, the key to sustainability is consistency. A year from now, you can look back on your first workout and laugh because it means you stuck with it and improved steadily. Until then, one set at a time, one rep at a time.
Body fat
I don’t like the body mass index, a standard measure of body fat based upon height and weight, because it fails to take into account muscle. A hip-to-waist ratio, by contrast, is not only easier to calculate, it’s more accurate.
Find a tape measure and wrap it around your waist (at your navel). Then do the same for your hips. Divide your waist measurement by your hip measurement. Anything below .9 in men and .8 in women is an indication of relatively good health.
Lay on your back with your knees bent and your feet flat on the floor. Lean forward like you would with a sit-up—no hands—and drop your right leg, tuck it beneath the left. Then plant your left foot and rise to a standing position—again, no hands.
If you’re under 70, you should be able to do this fairly easily. If you can, it means your overall strength and body control are good and your brain’s saying all the right things to your muscles.
Assume the position of an old-school sit-up—flat on your back, hands tucked behind your head—only you’re going to straighten your legs rather than bend them. Slowly perform a sit-up. When you’re completely upright, you should look more like half a “C” than an “L.”
If you can do 10 of these, your hip-flexor, abdominal and lower-back strength is above average. If you can do 20, you’re ahead of most.
Upper body strength
The push-up is one of the oldest exercises there is, and it’s still the truest test of upper body strength. Your hands should be just outside your shoulders, your body, stiff and straight. Lower your chest until it grazes the floor, then push straight back up to the starting position. Twenty is good for guys; 40 is excellent. For women, 10 is promising, 20 is top-notch.
Flexibility
Sit on the floor with straight legs. Lean forward and touch your toes. The taller you are, the harder this is going to be. It should be a bit easier for women. They tend to be more flexible than guys. Either way, if you can touch them, good. If you can grab them, even better.
A photo exhibit explores the streets of the Caribbean’s new it spot.
Max Hansen Carversville Grocery, in Carversville, is hosting “Cuba From a Different Angle,” a photography exhibit by Jonathan M. Hansen, the younger brother of Max Hansen, the chef and owner of the gourmet grocery shop. The exhibit features images captured by Jonathan M. Hansen during his trips to Cuba over the last decade. A senior lecturer and faculty associate at Harvard, Hansen is writing a biography on the young Fidel Castro, his third book. He’s a self-taught photographer. Last spring, he exhibited at the Belmont Gallery of Art, in Belmont, Massachusetts, his first solo show. “What I do have, some people say, is a good eye,” Hansen says. “In Havana, I also have a lot of time, as Cuban archives typically close at 4 p.m. That gives me several hours with nothing to do before the evenings but explore and walk many different neighborhoods, old and new, restored and crumbling, commercial and residential.” The exhibit will run through the end of the month. An artist’s reception will be held January 15 at 6:30 p.m. Max Hansen will be preparing Cuban-inspired snacks and drinks. He also plans on serving a variety of Cuban cuisine at the grocery throughout the month.
Outside and in, the Main Line’s newest apartment building retains much of its nearly-100-year-old-character. But that doesn’t mean it’s without cutting-edge amenities.
By James Boyle
A selection of apartments are outfitted with air purification systems and circadian mood lighting. Think of it like living at a spa.
Under the scrutinizing eye of a community that takes its history and its curb appeal very seriously, a Bala Cynwyd developer spent two years and more than $35 million converting the former Eastern Baptist Seminary in Wynnewood into The Palmer, a high-end apartment building. And that only counts the actual construction period.
“It took three years to get the approvals from Lower Merion,” says Kevin Michals, a principal with Cross Properties, said developer. “People are always very cautious about new developments. The fact that we renovated an already existing building, rather than build a complete new development, made it a little easier.”
The 120,000-square foot, four-story building, designed by Philadelphia architect Horace Trumbauer and built in 1919 as a resort, has been listed on federal, state and local historical registers. The designation allows Cross to collect tax credits from the government, but it also severely limits the extent of any physical changes.
So the main lobby’s marble floor stayed. As did the rotunda’s wood floors and French doors. The arches, crown molding and balconies throughout are also original. “We have 60 different fireplaces in the homes, but they are more decorative than functional,” Michals says.
But The Palmer, the Main Line’s first new apartment building in more than 50 years, is not without its modern creature comforts. Cross partnered with Delos, a firm that specializes in developing sustainable- and wellness-minded spaces, to create several such apartments. They’re tricked out with high-end air purification systems (complete with aromatherapy), blackout shades, circadian mood lighting and vitamin C-infusing showerheads. “Water contains small amounts of chlorine,” Michals says. “The vitamin C counteracts the chlorine effects.”
There’s also a saltwater pool and a gourmet kitchen that’s available to residents for large gatherings, both of which are intended to invoke the halcyon vibe from the property’s original iteration, Green Hill Farms Hotel, retreat for Philly’s upper crust.
Photo credit: Courtesy The Palmer / Elizabeth Baxter
A meticulous two-year renovation transformed what Addison Wolfe Real Estate partner/realtor Art Mazzei describes as a “stately stone farmhouse” into a “spectacular English country manor.” No stone was left unturned. Literally. The parking square and walkways were dug up and laid anew with a skinny brick that was imported from Europe. The pool, likewise, was ripped out and replaced with a new heated one, complete with a spa and a waterfall, all of which sits atop a perch with an unspoiled view of the creek that runs throughout the nearly 25-acre Upper Bucks County estate.
The renovation doubled Valley Run Farm’s size, which now reaches just short of 4,000 square feet, without trouncing on its 165-year-old history. A “Game of Thrones”-size fireplace continues to command the great room, which now floods with sunlight thanks to opposing glass walls. Wide-plank French oak floors run throughout much of the home, as do exposed beams.
A massive skylight practically turns the posh kitchen into a solarium. All the better to appreciate a slew of amenities that would leave a Top Chef salivating, starting with Viking and Gagganeau appliances and custom-crafted cabinetry by the revered English company Smallbone of Devizes.
After a lengthy courting, it’s an enviable marriage of old-world character and cutting-edge creature comforts. —Scott Edwards
A guide to making room for the Christmas toys. (Theirs and yours.)
By Laurie Palau
If we’re not addicted to possessing the latest, most-hyped [insert the toy, device, home good or article of clothing here], then why do Black Friday sales now start in October? Let’s not pretend that Christmas isn’t a convenient excuse to lighten up in our daily struggle with restraint. As long as we give as good as we get, it’s not being greedy anyway.
But this isn’t about accumulating stuff. We’re not hoarders. Upgrading, by definition, means replacing. So, let’s launch a new Christmas tradition here and now. Once the tsunami of wrapping paper that is Christmas morning recedes, purge your household of all the unwanted things. With the excitement of getting new things (and the space and attention they’ll command), everyone, including the kids (especially the kids), should be willing to make a more honest evaluation of what’s important to them. (Hint: if there’s dust on it, it’s not. If it’s obsolete, it’s not.)
In fact, you may find that you and your family get a little (a lot) carried away. This, however, is a conscientious purge, not a scorched-earth purge. The goal is to keep as much as you can out of a landfill. Create four piles: Donations, Consignments, Recycling and, of course, Garbage. Think of the Garbage pile as a last resort. Here’s a brief guide to help you divvy up the rest.
In the home that Karen Vandeven and Steve Williams built from scratch, every feature was considered and reconsidered until it became a bespoke fit for their deftly curated lifestyle.
By Scott Edwards • Photography by William Heuberger
The living room houses most of Williams’ antique bike collection, along with a few more signs.
Karen Vandeven and Steve Williams’ three-bedroom home sits on a subdivided 120-acre farm in a densely wooded corner of Tinicum, about a 20-minute drive north of New Hope.
“We like it out here,” Williams says. “Although, when we first drove up here, we thought we were a little bit out [there]. We thought we were in Canada, we drove up so far.”
“Our friends, too. They would never come and visit,”Vandeven says.“And now, things have come so close. Doylestown is at our backdoor.”
They bought their five-acre plot in 1998. Back then, a band of vultures hanging out around the corner didn’t even flinch at the sight of them, probably because they knew they had the numbers. Even now, this nook looks relatively unfazed by time. The property’s original stone farmhouse sits just up the hill, within sight of the couple’s home. The corrugated metal cladding that wraps around the second floor of their home is meant to mimic the exterior of the farm’s two-story chicken coop and, in turn, convey a sense of belonging.
But Vandeven and Williams’ home shares little else in common with the remnants of the farm, or, really, any of their neighbors’ homes. As Williams tells it, an older woman in a Mercedes pulled into the driveway mid-construction, compelled to inform the contractor, Richard B. Reshetar (who’s based in the next town over, Point Pleasant), that the area wasn’t zoned for a factory. It’s a home, Reshetar told her. The woman, dumbfounded, said, “Who would want to live in something like that?”
Williams’ home office.
Williams, a graphic designer, had been sketching their dream home for years. Architect John Hayden caught his first glimpse of his drawings when he wandered into Williams’ former office in The Stocking Works, in Newtown, a retrofitted office complex that Hayden himself designed. When they finally found this land, after a year of looking, Williams called Hayden and asked him to design their house. A narrow ledge about midway down a 50-foot slope meant that the layout would have to be rectangular, not square, as Williams wanted. But that was the only major blow to his modern vision.
View from the top of the three-story “tower.”
The 3,000 square foot-home was built over 11 months and completed in June 2001, nearly every detail custom-designed. (A 1,200 square foot, three-story addition that the couple refers to as “the tower” for its obvious resemblance was constructed in 2008.) So much of the design, both inside and out, was influenced by their first home together, an apartment that wasn’t really an apartment in The Laceworks building, a retrofitted 18th century-mill in Lambertville, New Jersey. It was a wide-open, industrial-type space—1,500 square feet, no walls, a 15 foot-ceiling—that Williams talked the owner into letting him renovate.
“It got really hot up there in the summertime, really cold in the wintertime. The walls were just brick,” he says.
Williams installed a kitchen and a bathroom and painstakingly restored the hardwood floors. He lived there for eight years, the last three with Vandeven.
The loft-like master bedroom.
From the overall aesthetic to the practical features, this home is a reimagining of that time—improved upon with maturity. Where there were tall windows, there’s now a pair of one-story glass walls. The core of the home, its literal center, is a commanding steel stairwell. The floors throughout are a grainy No. 3 maple, the same as the floor that Williams spent six weekends scraping and sanding. The walls are few and the ceilings require a 90-degree head-tilt to appreciate. And those ceilings are wood, just like the one at The Laceworks loft. Both were done that way as a matter of function, foremost. Vandeven and Williams are cultivating an extensive vintage trade sign collection, most of which are rather huge and needed to be hanged from the ceiling. A 16-foot, wooden ferguson’s fast side market sign, the first Williams bought (he was 17, and it cost him $5), spans nearly the entire far wall of the kitchen. And that’s not even the largest one in the room.
The second-floor study in the “tower”
Nor are the signs the extent of their collections. Williams has also amassed a museum-quality stockpile of antique bikes. The living room is lined with several, including an ordinary (giant front wheel, tiny rear wheel), the oldest of which date back to the late 19th century. His favorite, a blue and silver 1937 Monarch Silver King, sits around the corner at the base of the stairwell.
Perfume and lotion bottles from several eras ago, the objects of Vandeven’s obsession, and rare, 100-year-old-plus lithographed tins are neatly organized on what look like glass shelves in the mold of a tool chest. There’s also Williams’ library, which is housed on the second floor of the tower. (Typography is the underlying bond of most of his various compilations.)
Both were scavengers before they met, but they function better as a couple. Williams can be impulsive, but he’s learned to abide by Vandeven’s code of conduct, which is, namely, don’t sprint across a flea market after the Next Great Find. Which he still sometimes does anyway.
In any other home, if the main entrance opens to the kitchen, it’s considered a design flaw. Here, it’s completely intentional. The kitchen is where you begin to understand the full effect of all that spaciousness. It’s not just carving out ample room for the signs. When people have room to breathe, they’re more inclined to get comfortable. This space could feel effortlessly intimate with five people hanging out in it or 50. Dinner parties here, it’s easy to imagine, would feel something like eating at a small BYO with an open kitchen.
The chef Max Hansen prepares dinner in Williams and Vendeven’s kitchen.
Vandeven and Williams are avid cooks, and the kitchen follows their ambitious needs as much as their aesthetic. The chef Max Hansen, who lives and operates his eponymous gourmet grocery in nearby Carversville, is a close friend. According to Williams, he considers their kitchen one of his favorites to cook in. The Viking Professional Series range can’t hurt.
The home’s main entrance and sun deck sit atop the garage.
Williams designed the sculptural aluminum pot rack which hangs over the center of an island that spans almost the full length of the large room. Beneath its counter hides the kitchen’s most impressive feature. A stainless steel dining table extends from one end of the island. At full-length, it seats 16. It’s the brainchild of a couple who spent many hours walking through the rooms of their dream house long before a blueprint ever materialized.
